A Kiss and a Cuddle Should be Sufficient
by Evenlodes Friend
Summary: Going undercover, Sherlock and John pursue a vicious killer to a gay group sex party. Not unexpectedly, things get a little out of hand. Set after Baskerville, but before the Fall. Lots of M/M sex, don't like, don't read.
1. Chapter 1

**A Kiss and a Cuddle Should be Sufficient**

**Chapter 1**

**Author's Note:** Happy New Year, all. Yes, I'm sorry I'm so late, but the sentiment is there, nevertheless. This is my first offering of 2013 and I hope you like it. Chapter 2 is a bit strong. You have been warned.

**Remember** you can also find me at AO3 as Evenlodes_Friend.

* * *

Sherlock had been playing his cards very close to his chest.

'Made any progress?'

'I'll let you know.'

He hadn't let John have his laptop back for three days. Three days spent, incidentally, behind the locked door of his bedroom.

'People are dying, Sherlock,' Lestrade called, pressing his cheek to the wood.

John rolled his eyes. 'You won't get anything out of him,' he said.

At which point the door flew open and Sherlock barged through in a flurry of blue silk dressing gown.

'Hey- Where-' Lestrade shouted after him.

The bathroom door shut with a slam, then opened again briefly.

'John, we are going out. Lestrade, you can make an arrest tonight.'

Then it shut again. There was a momentary pause, and then the sound of the shower filled the flat.

John peered into Sherlock's room. His laptop was lying in the midst of the rumpled sheets. He went in and picked it up.

'The bastard has let the battery go flat,' he groaned.

Lestrade shrugged. 'Normal service resumed, I suppose,' he grunted and slouched off.

* * *

'You can't go in that,' Sherlock snapped.

John looked down at his clothes. He was wearing a perfectly reasonable outfit for a smart event, which was what Sherlock ordered. Chinos, button-down collar shirt, tweed jacket.

'Why not?'

'We aren't going to some Islington dinner party, that's why.'

'Well, perhaps if you told me where we _are_ going?'

Sherlock breezed past him, taking the stairs two at a time.

'What are you doing now?' John called up.

Sherlock's voice was worryingly muffled. 'Choosing you something suitable to wear!'

'Oh God!' John gasped and raced up. It was as bad as he expected. Clothes everywhere, and Sherlock with his head in the closet, flinging out more. A smart white shirt, recently ironed, described a neat arc.

'Haven't you got anything vaguely presentable?'

'You're putting all that away again, do you hear, you fucking vandal?' John could feel his blood pressure scaling new heights.

'Ah!' Sherlock plucked out a collarless black shirt and held it out to John imperiously. 'This, and the dark jeans.'

'It doesn't fit.' John crossed his arms and set his jaw. 'It's too tight. Pulls at the buttons.'

Sherlock's face lit up. 'Perfect!' he trilled.

'Dear God, you're not serious? I'll look like a middle-aged gay on the pull!'

'Aha,' Sherlock grinned, pushing the shirt into his hands as he made his escape.

* * *

When John came downstairs again, he was duly dressed as required and feeling very uncomfortable. When he reached out for his tweed jacket, the shirt placket strained and patches of pale flesh were exposed.

'I can't go out in this, it's indecent!'

'Not the tweed,' Sherlock said, snatching it away. 'The black donkey jacket, I think.'

'There goes any credibility I had left,' John grumbled, and followed him out of the house.

* * *

Four men have been killed. Strangled, to be precise. By person or persons unknown. The killings appear to be entirely random, the victims have nothing or no one in common, at least as far as the Met can work out, and those are the hardest crimes to solve. The only common factor is the modus operandi. Strangulation with piano wire.

'Garrotting, to be technically precise,' Sherlock corrected John in the cab.

'So where exactly are we going?'

'To a party,' Sherlock said, staring hard out of the window, which he always did when he was only giving John half the story because he knew the unspoken half would piss him off acutely. (You get to pick up on these little things when you've lived and worked together as long as John and Sherlock have.) So John stared out of his own window, quietly fuming, knowing he was being taken for a ride by his friend as well as the cabbie.

* * *

Bankside. Behind the Globe Theatre. A fancy conversion of a Victorian warehouse, all glittering glass and spotlights.

John and Sherlock entered through a prism-cut door with etched panels, beautiful, swirly, stylised representations of Shakespeare's London. In the middle of the foyer was a table and behind it stood a man. A naked man. Actually, John noted, to be fair he was wearing a black silk bow tie. And a tan.

'You must be Sherlock!' His eyes were flaring flirtaciously.

'You must be Darren,' Sherlock glowed. John had seen this before, Sherlock doing his charm thing. 'I've been so looking forward to meeting you.'

'Oh, mutual, darling.' Darren looked John over with a shamelessly obvious expression of desire. 'And who is _this_?'

Sherlock slung his arm loosely around John's shoulders. 'This is John.'

'Well, _hello_ John!' Darren could not have been more camp if he had been wearing a woggle. Which he was not. John noticed that the tan was an all-over tan. Completely all over. Despite being a doctor, John didn't know you could tan there. Amazing what comes out of a bottle these days, he thought, and managed a smile. Unsure as to what the hell he was supposed to be doing, he decided to play along and rip Sherlock's head off later. He slipped his arm around Sherlock's waist and squeezed.

'Sherlock's boyfriend,' he added, as if he wasn't making himself clear enough.

'Of course,' Darren smiled, apparently reading a subtext that wasn't there. 'It's all the same here.'

To John's amazement, Sherlock then handed over a sizable wad of cash, which Darren stashed in a drawer on his side of the teak designer table.

'So, are we playing tonight?' He asked this, trying to conceal his hope with nonchalance.

Sherlock gave John a fond glance before he answered. 'Oh, just watching tonight, I think. John likes to watch.'

'And you like what John likes,' Darren fluttered. 'You will let me know if you change your minds. I'd love to join in.'

'You'll be first on our list if we do,' Sherlock grinned.

Darren scooped something out of another drawer. 'Here's some party hats,' he said. 'Just in case.'

He dropped whatever it was into Sherlock's hand.

'Mmmm,' he said, examining the haul. 'Blackcurrant flavour. Haven't come across those before.'

'Oh, they're my favourite,' Darren tittered salaciously. 'See you boys later!'

He even did a little waive with his fingertips.

John managed to peer into Sherlock's palm before he tucked the haul away in his jacket pocket. Condoms. They were halfway up the stairs before he grabbed his friend's arm, and jerked him to a standstill.

'What the fuck are you playing at? What is this?'

'Going undercover,' Sherlock snapped back. 'Try to look natural.' He slid his arm tighter around John's shoulders, pulling him in against his thin body as if in a gentle intimacy. John marvelled, as he often did, at how Sherlock's actions were at odds with his words.

'What are we going under cover at? This – what is it?'

'Ok, you are my boyfriend-'

'I'd already established that!'

'And we are here to watch a gay group sex party.'

'What?!' John almost squeaked.

'Keep your voice down, you idiot! The victims _do_ have something in common, John. It just took me a while to find it. They were all voyeurs. They liked to watch gay sex. They all attended this party the night they died, but declined to participate.'

'What do you mean, this _party_? You just paid to get in!'

'It's a regular meeting, once a week. People pay to take part or watch, as they prefer. All vetted, all very safe, and the perfect environment for the killers to scope out their victims.'

'So we know it must be someone on the guest list?'

'Yes.' Sherlock was starting to mount the stairs again when John pulled him back.

'So how did you get on the guest list? Are you a regular?'

Sherlock laughed softly. 'When did you notice me doing _anything_ regularly?'

'Hang on, you told Darren I liked to watch.'

'Yes.'

'So, I'm the bait?'

'Don't worry, you're perfectly safe.'

'I know that, I can handle myself, thank you very much. It's just you might have thought to tell me first.'

'Are you suggesting that if I had told you we were going to watch a gay orgy, with the expectation of you attracting a sexually motived killer, you would have been perfectly fine with it?'

John scowled at him for a moment, then threw up his hands. 'Alright, what do you want me to do?'

'Act natural. We are in love, it's your kink and I'm indulging you. You don't have to take part, just be a bit lovely-dovey and try to blend in.'

'Blend in? I'm a straight man at a gay orgy and you want me to blend in?'

'The previous victims managed it.'

John shook his head. 'Yeah, and look what happened to them. With piano wire.'

Sherlock huffed as a man appeared above and trotted casually past them on the stairs. He was wearing a rubber g-string. He didn't seem to notice them, but Sherlock pulled John a little closer just in case, brushing his lips along John's hairline. When he had gone, they eased back, and John felt his face burning.

'So what are _you_ going to do?' he asked.

'Look for potential assailants, and act as if I'm enjoying watching you get turned on by watching other men fuck.'

'Great,' John grumbled. 'Tell me again where this was in the flat rental agreement we signed together?'

'Oh, for heaven's sake, just put on your happy face, and let's get this over with,' Sherlock groaned. 'People are dying, remember?'

* * *

**Tomorrow,** Sherlock and John have to convince the killer of their 'veracity' as a couple…


	2. Chapter 2

**A Kiss and a Cuddle Should be Sufficient**

**Chapter 2**

In which a kiss and a cuddle prove to be thoroughly insufficient, and John gets a lapful. Literally.

**WARNING**: Description of a male on male orgy. Don't like, don't read.

**Author's Note:** To be fair, I ought to reference **ChasingRiver** in the genesis of this work, or possibly blame her, as you wish. My husband's schoolyard- referenced excuse, 'an older boy made me do it, sir!', would probably be applicable here. Not that she is older than me. She may be, I haven't asked her. Anyway, she's brilliant. Also big love to **WitchRavenFox** and **Witch Nova**, my partners in crime, and all you lovely commenters who make me bounce about with delight when I see you've taken the time to comment. Its so wonderful to know people are out there reading this stuff. Thank you.

And now, on with the smut...

* * *

At the top of the stairs was a door. Inside the door was a big room, with windows all along one side, and a number of sofas and ottomans around the edge.

And lots of naked human flesh.

John had only ever seen this much sex happening at once on a screen, and a small one at that. Everywhere he looked there were genitals, hands, mouths, orofices. A music system was playing cool ambient jazz-funk as background wallpaper, but the main sound in the room came from the participants' moans and gasps of pleasure, and a selection of obscenely organic slapping and squelching noises. There were groups of men standing about watching, some dressed or partly so, some of them naked. There were men sitting on the sofas, some in couples, some in threesomes or more. By the door, there was a table covered in small bottles of water and fruit juice, and baskets of condoms and lube sachets. They both chose a drink and then Sherlock took John's hand and led him through the melee, stepping over prone and writhing bodies, until they found somewhere to sit together, side by side.

To John's right, a handsome young black man was sitting watching a couple engaging in an energetic 69 at his feet, whilst languidly stroking his own cock. To Sherlock's left a boy who to John's eye could barely have been legal age was fellating a man who looked old enough to have a bus pass. He said a genial good evening to them both as they sat down, sounding as if he'd met them in a bus queue rather than at a potentially intense erotic moment.

'Are you playing tonight, gentlemen? I'm sure Danny here would be happy to join you.'

Danny looked up from the old man's crotch and blinked a welcome at them.

'Thank you, no,' Sherlock smiled kindly. 'My boyfriend just likes to watch.'

'Shame,' the pensioner said, leaning forward a little to look John over. 'I like a military style of man myself.'

John managed to give him a weak smile and turned away, trying to put the image of the old man's wizened cock out of his mind. Danny didn't seem to mind, however. From the moans he was making, he was either faking it to save the old boy's feelings, or he was loving every minute. The variety of human sexual interests is truly infinite, he decided.

Sherlock slipped his arm around John's shoulders again, and nuzzled his ear lovingly. John had to turn his head slightly towards his friend in order to comfort himself that they wouldn't be overheard.

'Where the hell do I look, Sherlock? This is a fucking nightmare,' he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock leaned in and made as if he was breathing into John's ear. 'Choose a scene that interests you and watch that. Pretend it involves a woman if you must, but watch one group.'

John took a deep breath and allowed himself to scan the room. There were men in every state of undress and arousal. There were men in pretty much every combination, both positional and numeric, that it was possible to imagine, and some positions it was still impossible to imagine despite the fact that he was actually seeing them in the flesh.

Just in front of him, two men were spit-roasting another, one fucking from behind, the other having his cock well and truly sucked. The man in between looked as if he was having the time of his life. Behind them was a daisy chain of some seven men lying on their sides on the thick carpet, each one fucking the arse of the man in front. Beside them, two young men were exploring one another's anuses with their tongues. On a low table, a man was busy impaling himself on a black dildo that seemed to be adhered to the tabletop. It was the size of a small tree trunk, but he seemed undaunted, cheered on by a group of fascinated onlookers who periodically reached out and cranked his cock for him.

However, it was over on the other side of the room that John's eyes finally came to rest. It was a group of five, one man lying prone with another, a younger blonde, riding him. John watched the blonde's buttocks flexing as he slid up and down, sweat streaming down his back and flanks, impaling himself on the tumescent cock of his lover. Around them stood the three other men, each one with an impressive erection. They seemed to be engaged in some kind of competition to see how many cocks the rider could take in his mouth at one time without choking. Every now and then the rider would crawl off the prone man, and another would take his place, so that they each got a chance to penetrate him.

John felt like he was watching a train crash. It was horrible but he couldn't seem to look away.

He became aware of the fact that Sherlock was sliding his long, articulate hand up and down the inside of John's thigh. Then he became aware of the fact that this was an increasingly pleasant sensation. Sherlock whispered hotly into his ear.

'I think we're being watched.'

'Hmmm?'

'Over in the corner.' He nibbled on John's lobe experimentally, and John jumped a little with the delicious shock of it. He tried to slide his eyes surreptitiously round. There were indeed two men observing them from the corner. One was about thirty, fair-haired and slim. The other was much older, late forties perhaps, swarthy, bearded and with a great deal of body hair. The younger man was sitting on the elder's lap; both were naked, toying with one another's cocks as if it were an afterthought, neither apparently as interested in each other as they were in the writhing mass of copulation unfolding in front of them. The older man whispered something into his companion's ear, and he got up and approached John and Sherlock, stepping over the 69-ers on his way.

'Hi, having fun?'

John looked up at his face because to look straight in front was to risk getting his eye poked out by the man's prominent penis. He was aware of Sherlock snuggling closer in a possessive fashion.

'Great, yeah, thanks. You?'

The man seemed not to have noticed the question. 'My friend and I would really like it if you'd come over and play with us.'

The request was aimed directly at John. The man looked right into his eyes when he asked, no question that the invitation was anything but for him alone.

John knew this was it. Something stilled inside him.

'That's really sweet,' he heard Sherlock saying. 'But my boyfriend just likes to watch.'

The man didn't take his eyes away from John's. He was waiting for John's own reply before taking no for an answer.

'I'm flattered, of course, but I only play with him,' John said, patting Sherlock's knee. 'The old ball and chain,' he laughed, as a sweetener. 'Thanks all the same.'

The young man shrugged. 'You're missing out on some great cock,' he said.

'Wouldn't want to take your share,' John smiled pleasantly.

'Ok, well, have fun.' The man turned and went back to his lover to report. John watched them carefully. He saw the flash of resentment in the older man's eyes, and turned his head to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

'I thought orgies weren't supposed to be about mind games.'

'Clearly not for them. I think we may have our man.'

But they were still being observed.

'I don't think,' Sherlock murmured, his breath hot on John's cheek, 'that our friend is convinced of our veracity.'

'What do you suggest?'

Sherlock's fingers caught the rim of his jaw and eased his head around. Suddenly he was looking into those pale aquamarine eyes, and found his heart was pounding. Sherlock leant forward, his eyelids flickering shut.

And then they were kissing.

No, not just kissing. This was snogging. Tongues and teeth, probing and nipping, gulping and moaning, hands all over one another.

Somewhere in the back of John's skull a voice was saying 'this can't be happening.'

And another one answered, 'thank God it is.'

John came up for air, but Sherlock was determined. He licked and kissed his way along John's jaw and down the side of his neck. John desperately tried to focus on the fivesome he had been watching. He could see that the blonde rider had taken several scalps by now – glistening pale fluid was dribbling down the insides of his thighs - but his lovers seemed undaunted, their erections undimmed.

The doctor in John wanted to yell about STDs and the wisdom of safe sex, but this was not the time. Some of the men around him were using condoms, yes, for oral as well as penetrative sex, but some had chosen not to, and the slithering of fresh semen down people's buttocks or faces seemed to be adding to everyone's excitement.

Sherlock's sensuous fingers began to knead the flesh of John's inner thigh, and he nipped at the fragile skin of John's throat, eliciting a helpless groan.

'Oh, like a little pain, do we?' Sherlock teased.

'Fuck you, beanpole,' John growled, trying to control himself. 'Is he convinced?'

'Too early to tell,' Sherlock said, and fell on John's mouth again. John found himself getting lost in the delicious slide of lip on lip, of tongue on tongue. He could feel the flush of blood to his groin as Sherlock's hand worked higher.

'Open your eyes. You're a voyeur, remember,' Sherlock growled in his ear, and John tried. It was a fight, but he managed to focus on the fivesome again.

One of the fellated had taken up position behind the blonde rider. John watched in disbelief as he crouched down and pressed his glans against the same hole that the current prone partner was busy plunging in and out of. Time seemed momentarily suspended and then John realised he was seeing a double penetration for the first time. At precisely the same moment as Sherlock's sinuous hand ventured over the rubicon and began to palm John's own obvious erection.

'Keep watching,' Sherlock coaxed, flipping open the buckle of John's belt.

The rider was moaning as his second partner pressed deeper into him, the first having slowed to accommodate the second penetration. His face was a picture of pleasure mixed with pain. A voice in the back of John's head was barking on about ruptures, but all John could see was a tunnel view of three men dripping with sweat and come, and having the best sex of their lives. He tried to focus but everything was going hazy. Cold fingers had slid down his zip and slipped inside, and now Sherlock was rubbing his shaft through the soft cotton jersey of his pants and biting gently at his neck.

'Oh, fuck,' he groaned.

Beside them, the boy Danny had graduated onto his elderly lover's lap, where he was bouncing up and down on the pensioner's veinous purple prong. The black guy had slithered off his seat and was sitting on the face of one or the 69-ers, while the other was eating his penis with expression of almost maniacal hunger. The room suddenly seemed intensely hot, the air thick and rich with the stink of sex.

John didn't know which was going to explode first, his brain or his cock.

Sherlock nuzzled his ear. 'I don't think this is enough,' he muttered. 'Sorry. I'm going to have to go all out.'

John didn't know what that meant, but it quickly became apparent when his consulting flatmate slipped lightly off the sofa and settled himself between John's knees. John found himself co-operating with having his trousers and underwear removed. His cock slapped stickily against his belly as it escaped captivity. His eyes almost burst out of his head when Sherlock wolfed him down.

This can't be right, said the annoying voice inside his skull.

Oh, fuck off, said the other one. This is what we've wanted all along, isn't it? I mean, look at that mouth – it was made for this!

Sherlock slid the flat of his tongue up John's aching shaft and licked hungrily at the crown. His eyes rolled up to meet John's and he flicked his gaze to the right to remind him that he was supposed to be ogling others. While Sherlock's lips slid over and round John's straining foreskin, he struggled to train his eyes on those ahead.

Which was all going fairly well until Danny, the boy next door, climbed out of the lap of his ancient lover and scrambled behind Sherlock with a naughty grin. When he touched Sherlock's ample rump, the detective's hips twitched in shock, and John felt a gasp of cold air being sucked in around his cock. Danny started to slide his hands over and round Sherlock's buttocks, then slowly down the insides of his thighs and underneath his crotch.

John started to feel dizzy.

Sherlock moaned softly, and the vibration went right to John's root.

The boy slipped his hands under Sherlock's waist and fiddled with belt and flies, then pulled trousers and pants down to Sherlock's bent knees with one sweep. John and Danny were both momentarily dazzled by the flash of pearlescent skin revealed. Then Danny licked his lips, gave John a bold look right in the eye, and without more ado, pressed Sherlock's cheeks apart and buried his face in his arse.

Sherlock swore.

Now John was watching a scene unfold at his feet, the blonde rider and his anal gymnastics completely forgotten, as the young man comprehensively ate out Sherlock's anus to a chorus of approval from everyone around them – suddenly the watchers had become the watched. John stared in disbelief while Sherlock bucked his hips and growled, his face still buried in his flatmate's crotch.

John grabbed onto the edge of the sofa and held on, his knuckles turning white. This could not be happening to him. To them. He didn't get turned on by other men. He wasn't gay. And yet here he was, with Sherlock sucking him off, and that in itself was enough to make him come on the spot, and frankly he would have done, if it had not been for the splendid spectacle of Sherlock being rimmed at the same time, and clearly loving it. Why John wasn't exploding semen into Sherlock's face defied him. But he wanted to watch more than anything. Perhaps he was a voyeur after all. Perhaps Sherlock understood him better than he understood himself.

And just as he was coming to this conclusion, Sherlock did the unexpected and the bottom fell out of John's world as he knew it.

Sherlock pulled away from the boy, kicked off his shoes, and his trousers, and pants, which had been knotted around his ankles, and climbed into John's lap.

'Oh fuck,' John heard himself say.

Sherlock's skin was radiating heat. He straddled John, but John had to grab a handful of buttock in either side to stop him tipping backwards. It didn't matter. In fact it helped, because Sherlock then leant back, reached behind himself, and John felt his cool fingers on his own super-heated cock.

Clarity came to him in a rush. He knew what was about to happen. And he wanted it.

Sherlock's hole was slick with Danny's saliva, soft from the boy's ministrations. He obviously knew what he was doing. John had done this too, a few times with more adventurous girlfriends, but this was way more than he had ever expected to experience, and he felt like his brain might dribble out of his ears with the madness of it. Sherlock eased back, pressing down until John's cock breached him. He sighed, paused for a moment or two, and then sank. John felt the slow, silken slide and then he was buried inside his friend, and there was no going back.

It was utterly perfect.

Sherlock began to move, lifting his body off and then pressing down again, his eyes firmly shut, his lips open and pouting, his breath short and ragged.

John felt dizzy, dazzled by Sherlock's perfect skin, the luscious plumpness of his lips, and the incredible sensation of his body. He was so tight and hot that John could barely contain himself. He gripped the flesh of Sherlock's backside and held on for dear life, the crowd of heaving bodies around them fading into nothing as Sherlock rode him wildly. The rich scent of Sherlock's sex fumed off him, lavender and lemon and sandalwood together with a faint hint of fish and earthy skin and sweat, the smell of a man in rut. John became aware of Sherlock's cock slapping wetly against his own belly, but he didn't dare let go to touch it in case Sherlock fell. And besides, Sherlock's long fingers were digging into his shoulders so deeply that pains were running down his arms, and he couldn't have borne to move even if it had been possible. The pain was a perfect counterpoint to the pleasure of the tight sheath of muscle around John's cock, rippling with desire.

As if on cue, Danny appeared beside them, and reached in between their bodies, pushing shirt tails out of the way so that he could reach Sherlock's prick. John looked down and saw the boy's hand grip expertly, sliding the foreskin back down to reveal the rosy head, slick with clear fluid.

Sherlock swore.

Danny cleverly began to pump in time with their movement, replicating the thrusts so that Sherlock could very well have been fucking himself. John could feel him getting tighter, surging towards his climax, sweat beading his brow now and in the cup at the base of his swan-like throat, white thighs rippling. His own orgasm was close too, Sherlock's magnificent body sweeping him relentlessly forward, gripping him and thrusting against him.

And then Sherlock opened his eyes and looked right into John's. It was such a knowing look, the heat of desire like a beam from those pale orbs, and John, finally lost every last thread of sanity or restraint.

Gripping Sherlock's hips, even while his eyes were being ravished, he slid down to get some purchase and then began to thrust his own hips upwards, ramming himself home into Sherlock's body.

Sherlock came.

It was loud and it was deep and it was without doubt the best and most erotic thing John had ever either seen or experienced. Sherlock let out a wail that was almost a scream, his whole body convulsing, the muscles inside him clenching and re-clenching on John until they became an irresistible caress. John was only faintly aware of the wet heat fountaining out between Danny's fingers. Two more thrusts into Sherlock's quivering hole and he came too, a wrenching, scalding heat that drained everything he had into a lake of ecstasy so deep he was lost in its delirium for nearly a minute.

When he came to, Sherlock was still shaking on top of him, their foreheads pressed together, and there was applause all around them.

Pale eyes opened and blinked dreamily.

'You okay?' John managed.

'Probably not. Think brain completely fucked.'

John chuckled. He was still in his own post-coital haze, but the thought of Sherlock becoming inarticulate as a result of orgasm was enticing to say the least.

And then Sherlock kissed him.

It was not a casual kiss, or even a light, post-coital, thank you kiss. This was a kiss that meant something. Meant everything, in fact. For a moment as Sherlock's lips slid across his own, John could barely respond for shock, and then they were kissing and holding one another, and it didn't matter that there were a hundred men fucking around them because they didn't exist in either John or Sherlock's minds. The only thing that did matter was that they were together, that somehow their souls had touched, that something so profound had shifted between them that nothing could ever pry them apart again.

And then Sherlock lifted his head away and blinked, and became himself once more.

'We should go,' he whispered. 'Can you walk?'

'_I_ can walk. The question is, can you?'

'I'm sure the endorphins I have just released will take care of any resultant discomfort,' he said, and gingerly climbed off John's still not flaccid cock. (John had to admit at that point that he was pretty impressed he was still hard, given the strength of the orgasm he's just experienced. It was bloody near a miracle as far as he was concerned.) Sherlock, by contrast, was as soft as a kitten, and both of them were covered with his come.

Danny helpfully offered them a box of tissues.

'Very impressive,' the old man said as Sherlock helped himself. 'Very moving.'

'Oh, er, thank you,' John said when Sherlock didn't reply. Presumably, his mind was already on the apprehension of the villains ahead.

* * *

**Tomorrow**, the story's conclusion, with violence and ensuing fluff.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Kiss and a Cuddle Should be Sufficient**

**Chapter 3**

In which the killers catch up with Sherlock and John, with painful results, and Sherlock makes an apology which is not accepted.

**Author's Note:** So I'm thinking I've got a lot to live up to after yesterday's cavalcade of steamy reactions! Slightly quaking in my boots about what you might think of this concluding episode. All I can say is that if you liked yesterday, you are really going to _love_ what I'm working on at the moment! (John discovering the joys of a prostate massager should be an image that will keep you going for a little while!) Also apologies to the various corporations who have offices in Central London, cubicles of which I apparently set fire to yesterday!

**Warning:** Violence. With piano wire.

* * *

Piano wire is thick and strong and sharp. It cuts through human flesh like, well, like cheese wire cuts through cheese. And between the wire, and the strength of the man who held it, John barely stood any chance.

They had left the party. The cold air stung on their burning cheeks. Sherlock seemed focussed on the imminent arrest, but John's mind was still back on the sofa in the first floor room, with the writhing bodies and the vision of his sensual flatmate in full orgasm. Perhaps that was why he did not hear footsteps behind them, when he would normally have been hyper-alert in such a situation. Post-coital glow can inhibit the instincts of even the most talented of career soldiers, after all.

Sherlock was the first to go down. The younger man who had propositioned them stepped out of the shadows and bent over his prone body. John saw some kind of cosh in his hand. He only had time to glimpse it from the corner of his eye before the wire was around his throat.

But there was a tiny interval, a fraction of a second, in which his soldier's brain combined with survival instinct, and his hands jerked up. So when the wire tightened from behind him, it closed not only on his exposed throat, but on the palms of both his hands too. And then he was pushing the garrotte away from his larynx with every ounce of strength he had.

The wire cut into his flesh. He felt the heat of blood running down his forearms. A body was pressed against his back, tugging, throttling. His hands and feet became cold. He gritted his teeth, trying hard to breathe between them. The pressure grew.

I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die this time.

His vision began to dim, the orange of the sodium street lights paling to amber, black spots appearing. The pain in his throat intensified.

No. I'm not giving in, you bastard. No. Just-no!

He was on the floor, face down, his assailant's knee between his shoulder blades. Still struggling, but failing now, growing weaker. Less oxygen.

No air. No air.

Please. Please?

And then it stopped.

He was on his back. The pain in his throat seared through him but the pressure was gone. He could see street lamps and stars, faint, high up. And then a face, distant and bloodied, but familiar.

'John? John, hang on! Hang on!'

* * *

Fluorescent strip lights, rippled ceiling tiles and the smooth glide of a hospital trolley. A deep serenity flowing over him, the relief of being in some else's hands. The nagging tug of pain in his throat and hands.

People talking around him, a woman in surgical greens and a stethoscope, a man in a navy and white nurses' uniform top. They sounded a long way off, voices from the other end of a tunnel.

Wah wah wah.

The doctor leaned over, looming into his field of vision.

'You need an operation on your hands, John. We're going to take you down to theatre now.'

He blinked. Opened his mouth to speak. Nothing but a hoarse rasp came out. Pain closed his eyes.

* * *

Commotion. His eyelids were sticking together. The door burst open in a flurry of tweed.

'John! John!'

John opened his mouth to speak the sacred word, the familiar name, but nothing came out except pain.

* * *

Sherlock sat resolutely at his bedside for two days, infuriating the nurses, interrogating the doctors, until he was satisfied that John's wind pipe was not going to close up and suffocate him as a result of the bruising.

The operation to repair the tendons in John's palms had gone exceptionally well – the surgeon was a friend who had hurried in to do the job as soon as he had heard the news, and he was the best in his field. John would never again be capable of the kind of precision surgery he had performed on the battle field, but as a GP he didn't need to be. He was simply relieved that he was not going to lose either his hands or his fingers. A little woozy from the anaesthetic, he just wanted to go home to his own bed.

'Your voice has changed,' Sherlock groused. 'It's all gravelly. I don't like it.'

'I'm just glad I've still got it at all,' John rasped.

Once a series of consultant appointments had been lined up, and dressings changed, the medical staff were happy to discharge him. And only too glad to be rid of Sherlock, who had virtually ignored his own concussion once the wound in his head had been cleaned up and stitched, and had made it his business to harass everyone within a five mile radius.

* * *

It was late when they got back from the hospital. They had not spoken a word on the taxi ride home. Sherlock was radiating a kind of tension that made the air around him almost twang.

John's throat and hands were hurting a great deal, and all he wanted to do was to slump into his armchair by the fire and doze. He didn't feel like dealing with a wound-up Sherlock, but he knew he would get no rest until he had.

Sherlock helped him with his coat, standing at his back to hitch it off his shoulders and ease the cuffs over his bandaged hands. John flopped into his chair thankfully, but Sherlock perched on the edge of his, still in his Belstaff, gloved hands pressed palm-together and pinned between his thighs.

'Alright, out with it,' John croaked.

'What?'

'Oh, come off it! You want to say something so for God's sake, say it.'

'Well, since you ask, I think I should apologise.'

'For what, getting me throttled?'

'Well, to a certain extent, yes, but I was thinking more of what happened _before_ that.'

John sat back, wondering what was going to come next. Seeing Sherlock apologise was rare enough, but seeing him squirming under the weight of social embarrassment was worth recording for posterity, since he never usually gave a damn what people thought.

The half of John's brain that was not involved in gloating was, however, occupied with rerunning the voluptuous memory of his friend bucking, half naked, in his lap, his cheeks flushed, his cock pulsing.

Oh God.

'Look,' Sherlock said, beginning to turn pink. 'I really didn't expect it to go that far. I thought a little kiss and a cuddle would be quite sufficient, but-'

'A kiss and a cuddle?' John coughed. 'And you never thought to mention this to me?'

Sherlock gave him a filthy look. 'Are you suggesting you would have cooperated if I had?'

John huffed. He didn't want to have an argument, but that was all they seemed to do sometimes. Sherlock pouted, but battled on:

'I repeat, I only meant to kiss you sufficiently to convince them, but then, well, it all got a bit heated, so, er-'

'So you're trying to say sorry for what happened?'

'Yes, I suppose so.'

'You're sorry we had sex?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I'm not.'

Sherlock's head snapped up and he stared in shock. John shrugged.

'I wish I could tell you I was, but I'm not.'

'But you-' Sherlock spluttered. 'You're always going on about how you aren't gay!'

'Oh, wake up and smell the coffee! Aren't you supposed to be the observant one? Surely you've worked it out by now?'

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something succinct and cutting, and then obviously thought better of it, because he shut it again with a snap.

'I love you, you idiot,' John said, by way of exposition.

Sherlock gawped.

'But. But-'

'Not gay,' John agreed. 'Nope. I think it's a bit like what you said when we were in Dartmoor, about friendship. Remember?'

'Er-' He obviously didn't.

'You said you didn't have friends, you just had me. Well, I don't have male lovers. I just have you. I suppose I'm a Sherlo-sexual.'

They both burst out laughing. It was ridiculous, a crazy situation. Ridiculously, insanely perfect, John realised. Even though laughing made his throat hurt.

'I imagine at this juncture I am supposed to say something comfortingly reciprocal.'

'No need to lie, Sherlock,' John said, and then Sherlock looked pained, and the penny dropped. 'Ah, as I always suspected. All that stuff about being a sociopath is just what you tell people to make them go away so they won't hurt you, isn't it?'

Sherlock looked at his tangled hands in shame. 'You knew?'

'Come off it, it's the oldest trick in the book! I'm not as much of a thicko as you seem to think I am.'

'I never thought you were a thicko,' Sherlock protested. 'You just aren't a genius-'

'Like you?'

'Like me.' He sat back and gave John an appraising look.

'So what about this comforting reciprocation you promised?'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'Alright: my life before I met you was miserable. I don't want to go back to living like that. In fact, I have no intention of it, at least not without extreme and irrevocable cause.'

Now it was John's turn to narrow his eyes. 'Which means?'

'I like you. You make me happy.'

'Well,' John huffed, heaving himself up out of the armchair, 'I suppose that's the best I'm ever going to get out of you.'

'Oh, and this,' Sherlock said, getting up as well. He had closed the gap between them before John had time to blink, and then the little doctor found himself swept up into wiry arms.

Sherlock kissed him.

It was wonderful. Better than he remembered. Sherlock's lips were soft and plump and luxuriant, and John thought he could happily endure the pressure and caress of them forever. Except that was not the way it happened. They came up for air, and Sherlock breathed in his ear.

'How are you feeling?'

'Better all the time.'

'I thought we might go to bed.'

'Did you, indeed?'

'Mmmm, what do you think?'

John reached up and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's glossy dark curls.

'I'm not going to any more orgies, you know,' he felt required to point out.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curled up into a familiar, mischievous smile. 'Of course not. You'll have your hands full enough with just me.'

FIN

* * *

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